


Landlord

by savingpeoplehuntingthings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Explanations, Hurt Dean Winchester, M/M, Mechanic Dean Winchester, Past Castiel/Dean Winchester, Sam - Freeform, Sexual Tension, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-10 09:07:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/784301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savingpeoplehuntingthings/pseuds/savingpeoplehuntingthings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester; technician and mechanic, has a new tenant move into his basement. He is tall, muscular, good looking, and his name is Sam. Dean has a huge crush on him, but it's just four months after his blue-eyed boyfriend was murdered and Dean doesn't know whether to move on or not.<br/>Sam has recently started a new life away from hunting and all things supernatural. He has found a way to completely seal himself off from the world of ghosts, angels and demons, so he can lead a normal life. He doesn't want Dean finding out about the paranormal world, and the only way to do this is to keep his landlord at arm's length, which is not going to be easy, as he is slowly falling for Dean's charismatic smile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Moving In

**Author's Note:**

> So obviously I don't own Supernatural, Sam or Dean or Cas or John or any other character that pops up in this fic, because there would already be a Destiel kiss if I did. I only own the story and the characters you don't recognize from the show (e.g: Kate, Jenna, pizza guy (not Cas's pizza guy)) This is my first fic on ao3 so please don't eat me.

Dean watched, impressed, as his new tenant heaved the first box into the basement. The guy had some serious muscle. "Need any help?" he asked.

"Urmm, yeah. If you wouldn't mind," he replied.

"No problem. Are the rest in your car?"

"Taxi actually. The guy's waiting outside."

"Okay," Dean said, opening the door and walking out to the taxi on the curb. He greeted the driver with a smile and went to the open trunk. He was surprised that there wasn't much in there. His tenant, Samuel, had already brought in one box, and there was only a big rucksack and two more boxes in the taxi. Dean grabbed a really heavy box and struggled back to the house, walking through the open door. Samuel was coming up the stairs. Dean flashed him a grin as he passed, then he waddled down the stairs, careful not to scratch the newly painted wall. He placed the box on the floor and the contents rattled. His tenant came down the stairs a couple of minutes later with the last box and the large hiking rucksack on his back.

"Thanks Mr Winchester."

"My pleasure. And call me Dean, man; I'm your landlord not your school principle."

"Okay, thanks."

"I'll leave you to unpack, then I'll walk you through the house to refresh your memory of the place."

"Sure," Sam said, wiping the beads of sweat from his forehead and watching his landlord walk up the stairs to the door. He was wearing jeans and a tight t-shirt that made his muscles bulge, taunting any interested onlookers - Sam included. Kneeling on the floor, he ripped the tape from the first box and opened it. Inside were a couple of shirts, t-shirts and jeans, a pair of sneakers and some underwear. Wrapped in a couple of shirts were some old books and a photo of a woman and a new born baby. The photo was in an old silver frame which almost, but didn't quite cover the orange date stamp: 05/02/83, his birth date. Sam folded the clothes and put them in the old maple wood chest of drawers in the corner of the room. Then he placed the photo frame on top. The books went on a small shelf on the white wall opposite the double bed. The next box contained more books; modern ones this time, which joined the old ones on the shelf. The rusty blue metal alarm clock went next to the photo frame, and a cloth bag with a towel, razor, aftershave, soap and all in one shampoo-conditioner-shower gel (taken from a motel somewhere) made its home in the tiny adjoining bathroom, in which the sink, shower and toilet were so close together that he could probably use all three at once. 

Sam dragged the hiking bag to the corner of the room where there was a mini fridge and small oven with a hob on top. He took out a carton of milk, a small kettle and a couple of different ready meals. He had an old saucepan which he placed on the hob, and a half used packet of rice which he put in the little cupboard. The pasta and an almost expired jar of sauce joined the rice, along with some sugar and a jar of instant coffee. At the bottom of the main bag was a red mug with a chipped rim. Sam put it on the side with his knife, spoon and fork. His white china plate, also chipped went there too. The crockery had been wrapped in a winter coat, hat and scarf which Sam hung on the hook on the back of the door. He took some pieces of crinkled paper out of the coat pocket and put it next to the stove. It was a take away pizza menu and a Chinese menu, each with phone numbers for different areas on. Then he reached into the side pocket of the bag and brought out a one-kilo bag of refined table salt. He placed it in cupboard, hoping he wouldn't have to use it.

Once his clothes, books and food were unpacked, Sam opened the last box. A tired, relieved smile played on his lips when he saw the contents again. He reached inside cautiously and took out his silver pocket knife, wiped the blade on his jeans and placed it next to the photo on the chest of drawers. The flashlight was placed on the bedside table, along with a large tin filled with rock salt bullets and another tin with pure silver bullets. Sam put the sawed off shotgun under the bed, and the black pistol and a small bottle of gasoline in the bedside table along with his knife and the bullets. He hopefully wouldn't need the weapons anymore, but he wasn't taking any chances so early on in his new life. Sweaty and tired, he reached into the box and took out some draft stoppers. They were long thin canvas cylinders, which Sam had filled with salt, not sand. He had come to the conclusion that having lines of salt by the doors and windows would be hard to explain, so he'd put the salt in draft stopper bags. In was inconspicuous and would also keep the demons out, should any come looking for him. He laid one draft stopper at the door and one at the small half-window they often have in basements. Then with a groan, he he heaved the double mattress off the bed and put more draft-stoppers against the edge of the bed frame. These ones were hardly filled with salt and were almost flat, so when Sam heaved the mattress back onto the bed, the difference in height was hardly noticeable. Now, with salt at the windows and doors and all around his bed, along with his arsenal, there was no way (hopefully) that a demon could attack him. He knew he was being paranoid, but he had to be safe.

He sat on the bed for a minute, panting, trying to expel all thoughts of the supernatural world from his brain. Then a sound upstairs caught his attentions and he remembered Dean. He stripped off his sweaty tank top, jeans and underwear and stepped into the shower. The water gurgled in the pipe for a second before gushing out in cold splutters. Sam gasped as it ran down his back. A few seconds later, it warmed up and became a steady flow. He grabbed the shampoo-conditioner-shower gel and washed his damp hair and body. When he was clean he took the old towel and dried himself, then shaved in the sink, looking into the steamy mirror. He rubbed his hair with the towel and shook it like a wet dog until it was dry. 

He fake-smiled into the mirror, hoping it would make him happier, and then he chucked the wet towel over the shower door to dry. Jeans and a plain blue t-shirt were Sam's choice of clothes, unconsciously picking out the nicest clothes he owned. He'd noticed Dean wasn't wearing shoes in the house, and had even gone out to the taxi in socks, so Sam put on a pair of thick black socks and jogged up the stairs to his front door. The salt-filled draft stopper came into contact with his little toe and he grimaced, kicking it out of the way to open the door. He stepped into the main house, breathing out slowly to calm himself. The carpet was navy blue and wearing thin. He was in a hallway with the front door to his left and an open door to his right a couple of metres away. Through the open door, Sam could see a sitting room and a kitchen. The walls were white, like the walls of the basement flat, and there was a picture of his landlord Dean with his arm around a man with ruffled, dark brown hair and stubble. Sam smiled. The next picture along the wall was of the same two men, and the next.

Dean looked so happy in these photos with the unknown man; a big contrast to what little Sam had seen of him. He was no expert, but Sam had seen enough loss in his lifetime to figure out what Dean was going through. His captivating eyes were empty and his hands seemed accustomed to opening one to many bottles. Sam had watched, helpless and scared, as his father had gone through the same thing: the drinking, the crying, and the inevitable pretending that nothing was happening. Dean was doing the same and he wished he could help. 

"Hey Samuel."

Sam jumped a little and turned around. Dean was standing in the doorway, his hands in his back pockets.

"Hi," Sam stuttered, a little overwhelmed by how good Dean looked.

"Shall we start the tour?"

"Sure," Sam smiled nervously. "And um, please call me Sam okay?"

"Sure," Dean replied, his heart warming to his new tenant.


	2. Spell

As they walked around the spacious house, Dean couldn't help but notice the numerous scars on Sam's bare arms. What were they from? Self harming? Abuse? Fighting? Maybe he was a professional fighter, as he had the right physique. They walked around the ground floor, through the living room, small dining room and kitchen.

"Upstairs," Dean motioned towards the closed door at the top of a flight of steep, blue carpeted stairs, "are all my rooms, so basically you're welcome anywhere on this floor. There's a bathroom here," he opened a door to show Sam the interior, "and that's basically it." They walked back into the kitchen, and Sam leant on the cream coloured marble counter, already feeling a lot safer than he had in a while. Dean opened the fridge and took out two beers. He slid one across the counter to his tenant, who flashed him a smile that made Dean's heart flutter.

"Thanks."

"No problem," Dean grinned back. "…So…"

"Nice house," Sam filled in the silence a little too quickly.

"Thanks. I just moved in myself, about three months ago."

"Really?"  


"Yeah. It still needs a bit of work, especially upstairs with the roof and things, but I did the basement up as soon as I could, to get some money in." Dean took a swig of his beer. Sam copied.

"Ah."

"So, what do you do, Sam?"

Sam swallowed another mouthful of beer before he spoke the well rehearsed line. "I'm a lawyer."

"Oh really? I know-" Dean turned a little grey. "Used to know, a lawyer."

Sam saw the flash of pain in Dean's face and remembered the photographs in the hallway. "I'm sorry," he said softly.

Dean shook his head. "It's fine."

"So…how about you?"

"Oh, um, I'm a technician and mechanic."

"Ah."

Silence fell.

"How d'you get those scars?" Dean asked curiously, cocking his head towards Sam's muscular arms.

Fighting demons and spirits. And his dad. "Oh, I fell badly on something sharp when I was a kid. I was in my dad's workshop messing around. He's a carpenter."

"Ouch."

Yeah, thought Sam.

Dean's phone rang. They both jumped a little at the piercing sound.

"Sorry, hang on a sec," Dean said, digging into his pocket. He looked at the name, and Sam saw him take a deep breath. "Sorry, gotta take this."

Sam held up his hands, letting Dean know it was okay.

"See you soon Sam."

Sam nodded and downed the last of his beer. He left the bottle on the marble counter and walked down the hallway to the basement steps.

"Hello?" Sam heard Dean. "Hi Jenna… Yeah I'm 'k… Yeah… Sorry I didn’t come today, I didn't really feel-"

Then Sam jogged down the stairs, went into the basement flat and closed the door, wondering who Jenna was. Dean's voice was muffled and unintelligible now, but he didn’t want to intrude so he kept the door closed.  He lay on his bed with a sigh, and picked up the silver photo frame from the maple chest of drawers. A sad smile graced his lips. His mother looked so happy holding him. Slowly, he kissed the glass, replaced the frame, and brushed the hair out of his eyes. Then he dug his phone out of his coat, which was hanging on the back of the door and checked his messages: ten texts from Dad. Sam winced and chucked the phone on the floor, taking pleasure in the thudding sound it made on the thin blue carpeted floor. It wasn't late, he noticed, glancing at his waterproof watch, but he had nothing better to do so he grabbed his phone again and walked over to the kitchenette where he dialled the number.

"Heya Sam!"

"Urgh… hi? Is this the pizza place?"

"No silly! It's Kate!"

"Kate?"

"From the pizza place."

"So this is the pizza place?"

"No silly, this is my mobile."

"Ohhh!" Sam whispered, the memory of a cute brunette girl working the till at the pizza place in upstate New York writing her number on the menu came flooding back to him. "Hi Kate. Sorry, I got a bit confused."

"It doesn't matter!" He could hear the smile in her voice. "So, do you want to meet up sometime?"

"Sorry, um, I'm not in town."

"So when will you be?"

Sam laughed a little. "Probably not for a while." Because I already killed the demon who was a block away from your shop. He apologised again.

"Oh." She sounded hurt.

"No, no. It's just, I've moved house. New York wasn't my city."

"Oh… So why did you call then huh?"

"Honestly, wrong number. I wanted a pizza, but I'm a bit too far away to come pick it up, and I'm sure your guys on motorcycles wont want to travel this far."

"Okay then."

"Sorry Kate."

"It’s okay Sam. Nice talking to you."

"You too."

She hung up. Sam ran a hand through his hair, embarrassed. Then he ripped off the corner of the paper with her number on and threw it in the trashcan under the sink. He picked up his phone again, and this time, managed to actually order a pizza. Then he sat on his bed and took his dad's journal off the shelf. He flipped the thick pages to the back of the leather book and took out a thin, very old sheet of paper which had been ripped out of an antique book. As he'd flicked through the pages of the journal, he'd noticed the handwriting. It was fading slightly, and the changes of pen were frequent. Sam could still vividly remember his dad writing in the journal on the few occasions he was with him as a child in all those motels they'd stayed in. Sam would always doodle with the only pen in the room, and his father would get angry if the pen ran out due to Sam's drawings. They weren't happy memories. Sam's mind drifted to his dad _now_ ; drunken, delirious and war weary. Hunting had changed him in the past few years. Sam didn’t know why. 

The man had never been a good father. He had never been there for Sam when he needed him, but he'd always loved his boy, and Sam had always been safe in a hunt because John always had his partners' backs. But when Sam had snuck out of the house, carrying only a hiking bag filled with necessities, and traveled to Stanford, things had changed. His father had called him more than twice a day, furious. He chased him until he found him and then he provided 'evidence' he was a 'police officer' and that Sam was an 'escaped convict' and not a law student at all. Stanford couldn’t see any faults in John's fake ID and papers, and so Sam was taken to 'jail' and left collage behind forever. It was ridiculous that his dad had gone to such lengths to keep his son in the hunting business, but then, John had never been one for level headed thinking. Now he was too old to go back. The opportunity had passed, and since the gate to hell had been opened, he'd been a little too preoccupied to think about school.

Then he'd found the spell. It had been in an ancient book of Aztec charms, but the spell was handwritten in the margins of a piece of paper that had been ripped out of another book and tucked inside the Aztec one. Sam didn't know where the loose piece of paper came from, or who had scrawled the spell down the side in splotchy black ink, but he did know that it probably (hopefully) saved his life. It was a shield spell, and if uttered at least once a day, would keep him shielded and completely invisible to all things supernatural. With the piece of paper in his hand, he whispered the spell, hoping Dean wouldn't hear or walk in on him.

_"Scutum meum, qui dicit, ab omnibus spiritibus, daemones et animas non naturales._

_Scutum meum, qui dicit, ab omnibus spiritibus, daemones et animas non naturales._

_Scutum meum, qui dicit, ab omnibus spiritibus, daemones et animas non naturales._

_Scutum meum, qui dicit, ab omnibus spiritibus, daemones et animas non naturales._

_Scutum meum, qui dicit, ab omnibus spiritibus, daemones et animas non naturales."_

He looked up from the paper, shivering involuntarily as he felt a wave of something he couldn’t explain rush through the room. He would be safe for another day. Then he heard the doorbell ring. Going by the muffled speaking he could hear, Dean was still on the phone, so Sam got up from his bed and grabbed his wallet from his coat pocket. Then he opened his door, and the front door to collect his pizza.

"Pepperoni with a cheese filled crust?"

"Yep thanks."

"That'll be $12."

Sam handed him the money. "Thanks man." He smiled.

The man, about forty, portly and greying, nodded, and walked back to his bike. Sam walked back downstairs, inhaling the smell of pizza and sighing - half with content, half with exhaustion.

 


	3. Memories

There was a knock just as Sam was finishing the last of his pizza. He jogged up the stairs an opened the newly painted door to find Dean standing there, leaning against the doorframe.

"Hey."  


"Hi, urgh… sorry about before," Dean said with a small smile, his eyes glancing at the navy blue carpet for a fraction of a second.

"It's fine, you don't need to apologise."

Dean nodded, looked at the floor again, then said. "Well, I'll leave you to get some rest. You must be tired huh?"  


Sam cracked a smile and looked at his watch. "Yeah. But it's only eight thirty, dude. I mean, we could grab another beer." Dean didn't react. "On me?" Sam asked.

His landlord looked away again. "Sorry Sam, I'm not really up to it today." Sam saw a flash of moisture in his eyes. He tentatively laid a hand on the man's shoulder.

"It's okay. Another time yeah?"

"Yeah," Dean echoed unconvincingly.

"Well, g'night."  


"Night." Dean let out a breath he forgot he was holding in as Sam closed the basement door. He walked back to the kitchen and took out his flask from the back pocket of his jeans. He unscrewed the cap and took a long gulp of the whiskey, letting the fiery liquid pour down his throat and scald his aching heart. He had a crush on Sam, there was no doubt about that, but what would _he_ think? Dean didn’t want to move on so quickly. His eyes were wet again as he stared longingly at the picture of them together; Dean and the man with the bright blue eyes and rugged face: his one true love, Castiel. Would he mind? He'd always been the protective one.

Dean took another swig from his flask, trying to block out the images that were flooding back to him. He couldn't remember much from the night it had all happened. He remembered lying in bed with him, stroking his thick dark hair, when black smoke had come pouring out of the vent in the ceiling. They'd both looked on with horror, and in Dean's case, confusion. It twisted and coiled in ways that smoke shouldn't be able to do. Dean had watched as the man he loved had leapt out of bed and placed his palm on Dean's forehead. Then there had been a bright white light, and Dean couldn’t open his eyes. There was some sort of force stopping them. All he could hear were screams of pain. He felt something warm and wet splash his face.

"CAS!" Dean had yelled.

The screaming has stopped. Silence. The force had stopped too. Dean was too terrified to open his eyes. He didn't want to see what had happened. When he did finally look, all he saw was blood spattered everywhere. He couldn't see Cas beneath the red. The room blurred.

"CAS!" He'd cried out again. "CAS?"

 

Dean downed the last of his whiskey, and moved towards the cupboard to refill his flask. Jenna, his therapist, was right. He wasn't okay. It'd been four months since Cas had died. No-one could figure out how he'd been murdered. Dean didn't know whether Cas would be okay with him liking Sam. Hell, Dean didn't even know if Sam liked him back. He didn't want to move on this quickly. Jenna had warned him against it. Dean's hands shook as he poured the whisky into the flask, and it spilt over his hands and the counter. He swore under his breath and looked towards the basement door just to check that Sam wasn't there, watching him. Since Cas's death, he'd felt like he was being watched a lot. Sam wasn't there, of course; why would he be? Knowing he was now alone, Dean let himself sink into an armchair in the living room, and slide into his thoughts.

There was something about losing someone that overwhelmed you in a sea of memories. All the good and all the bad mixed into one big rush of emotions that made Dean's head hurt and his eyes water. Maybe it was his slowly diminishing sobriety, or just the thought of his perfect man drenched in his own blood, sprawled on the floor of their apartment, but Dean started to weep.

The first time they kissed often came back to haunt Dean. It was a hot and rushed kiss against the wall of Dean's apartment just as Cas was leaving after a late morning coffee together. His mouth had tasted of spices and fruit, Dean's of stale whiskey, black coffee and fast food, but Cas didn't seem to mind. Cas didn't really mind about any of Dean's imperfections. With their eyes closed, they fingered each other's hair. His was unwashed, while Cas's was silky, thick and perfect. Again, Cas didn't care. Cas had left his hair and ran his hands down the man's muscular neck and shoulders and back. Dean pulled away from his tingling lips out of pure surprise and the want of oxygen, panting and looking into Cas's deep blue eyes. Cas had looked at the floor, embarrassed, but with a slight smile on his face. Then he fled, mortified that he'd ruined his relationship, without a word to Dean, leaving him breathless and confused in the hallway of his tiny apartment. The door was still open, letting sunlight and fresh air waft into the apartment. Dean stood frozen, alone, trying to figure out what happened. By the time he could move to poke his head outside his front door, Cas had disappeared. The sunlight blinded him and he blinked as he stepped outside. The paving stones were cold and damp with dew on his bare feet and a breeze rustled his pyjama bottoms. Cas was nowhere to be seen.

"Cas?" He called out. The street was silent apart from the giggles of children playing in a backyard somewhere, and the squeak of a teenage boy on his bicycle delivering Sunday papers to the houses on the other side of the road. The boy looked around. Dean raised a hand in greeting, but seeing no one else, he turned back and went inside again, his feet still cold and damp.

Dean took another gulp of whiskey. He hadn't had enough to make him drunk: he'd always been one to hold his liquor. Yet, he wanted to get drunk so he could forget. Everything had been so perfect. Why did it have to change? He could never feel so in love again. Ever. The flask was almost empty once more, and Dean had to resist filling it up a third time because he couldn't be a drunken wreck in front of Sam. He'd known the man for less than a day, but was already trying to impress him.

"Sorry," Dean whispered, letting one more hot tear fall from his green eyes. I'm sorry Cas. I'm so sorry. He sniffed, then with a groan, heaved himself out of the armchair and upstairs to his bed. His eyes were still swimming with tears so he opened the door; he fumbled for the light switch on the wall. He found it, and the room lit up so brightly compared to the darkness of the living room that it made more tears fall. Then he stripped off his jeans and t-shirt and climbed into his cold bed, wearing only boxers and his thick dirty socks. The pillows were hard, as he'd given the nice ones to Sam. Dean buried his head in the bed sheets and shook with silent tears that eventually became full blown sobbing.

Downstairs, Sam could hear him crying. He didn't know what to do, so he didn't do anything; falling asleep on his soft pillows with a guilty ache in his chest.


	4. Morning

Sam woke, dry mouthed and bleary eyed. He checked his watch. It was a little past nine. Rubbing his face and scraping back his messy hair, he got out of the tangled sheets and walked over to the basement window. He opened it, letting the refreshing morning air wash over him and replace the smell of night sweat and greasy pizza which lingered in the room. Outside, in the small backyard of thick grass and weeds, the morning dew glinted in the rays of the pale yellow sun. He lent on the windowsill, blinking away sleep, his arms resting on the salt filled draft stopper he'd placed there the previous day.

Stepping into the bathroom, he fake-smiled into the mirror, hoping it would actually make him happier. It was a trick another hunter had taught him when he was very little: if you pretend to be happy, you will be happier; if you tell yourself everything is okay, things become easier to deal with. The cold water Sam then splashed on his face made him gasp, and he shook the water out of his eyes and knotted hair.

A clattering upstairs grabbed his attention, but in the light of the sobbing he'd listened to the previous night, Sam didn't want to disturb Dean, at least not before they'd both properly woken up. A cold shower seemed inviting, so he pulled off his sweatpants and stepped into the tiny confined space. The water bubbled overhead before gushing out in small bursts, making him shiver involuntarily.

Feeling refreshed, if not a little cold, he dried himself and dressed in jeans, a shirt and thick socks. He brushed his teeth quickly over the sink and he ran his fingers through his freshly washed hair; smiling all the while into the small bathroom mirror until his cheeks started to burn.

The red chipped mug he'd had since he was a child was in the cupboard, and he took it out and poured in some instant coffee granules. The kettle was soon filled with water and Sam fumbled for the plug, which was held together with tape. It looked comically out of place in the modern silver chrome socket that Dean had installed in the white walls. The kettle clicked a couple of minutes later and he poured himself a coffee, drinking it without milk or sugar and trying to savour its fake taste. As the drink finished, he got a mouthful of the grainy bitter granules that had failed to dissolve, and a soured face that made him look incredibly young graced his features. He set down the dirty mug and jogged up the stairs, taking a deep breath to calm his jittery self. He shook the damp hair out of his eyes.

Sam approached the kitchen where he could hear Dean. From behind, he could already see that he wasn't okay. His head hung limply from his drooping broad shoulders, reminding Sam of his father. On top of that, there was the all too familiar outline of a hip flask in the back of his tight jeans that Sam only associated with scared, lonely, grieving people.

"Oh hey Sam!" Dean turned around, grinning with a sparkle that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

"Hi," he blurted out, now painfully conscious that he had been staring at Dean's butt.

"Coffee?" He asked expectantly, holding out a glass jug from an espresso machine, filled with steaming fresh coffee. Sam's mouth watered at the sight of real coffee, not the tasteless brown water that was the result of cheap instant granules. It smelt so good.

"Had one already thanks," Sam replied, not wanting to be greedy. Besides, judging by the dark shadows under Dean's eyes, he needed the extra cup.

"'kay," Dean said, refilling his own mug. "Sleep well?"

Sam's mouth twitched, the dream coming back to him in quick, nauseating waves.

 

The pain creeps up on him slowly, then grips him suddenly from behind. He struggles but can't get free. There are chains holding him and no matter how hard he tries, he can't break them. There's laughter but he can't see where from. Then suddenly the bonds loosen and he's able to move. There's a stabbing in his gut making him wince and groan, and it feels like an eternity before he can move his feet. He can't move fast enough, and the fear grips his beating heart and ripped it to shreds. He hears barking and growling in the distance, getting closer by the second. He hears the screams of tortured souls in agony and his heart aches because he failed to help every single one of them. Then, he hears nothing. Silence. It envelops him and crushes him until he can't move anymore. Everything becomes more intense: the light brightens becomes more colourful, the sounds around him become louder…quicker, and the pain worsens. He's huddled in a ball on the burning ground, howling in agony. There are no tears to be shed. Then the hellhounds come, pounding their huge paws on the ground…And he woke, sticky with sweat. He coughed, and felt his tongue un-stick itself from the roof of his mouth.

 

"Yeah. You?"

"Like a baby," he replied with a charismatic raise of an eyebrow and flash of white teeth. He sipped from the steaming blue mug and Sam eyed his biceps. Jealous, his eyes left Dean's arms, but found themselves flitting cautiously downwards. Sam soon realised and blushed, his eyes wide, cursing silently. The floor suddenly became incredibly interesting to study.

"Like my socks huh?" Dean teased, glancing down at his plain black, completely unremarkable socks. Their embarrassed laughter hung in the silence that followed.

"So… you got any plans for today?"

"Umm, no actually," he answered, acutely aware of what Dean was doing.

"I'm gonna be working upstairs on some woodwork and stuff. And the roof needs fixing too. Wanna help?"

"Yeah sure, I mean, if you want me around." He berated himself as soon as he'd said the last part, not knowing how Dean would reply.

"Course I want you around!" he shot him a smile, raising his mug slightly as if he was giving a toast. "You look like a handy guy to have on site."

Sam snorted out a little laugh. "Thanks man."

 

Was Dean actually flirting with him?  Sam had been hit on by girls before, but this was different. He was good looking - very good looking, but Sam didn't know whether to be flattered or scared. The man was still obviously very broken from something, presumably the death of the blue-eyed lawyer in all the photos in the hallway. He was grieving and fragile inside, despite the brave face Sam could see right through. The confusion and pain he would inflict on Dean when he inevitably found out the truth seemed harsh. The truth about the paranormal always hit people hard, especially after a loss. The questions swamped him every time. So why can't they come back? If they're dead, why can't I see them as a ghost? Can't an angel or God or something bring them back? Are they in hell? Does Heaven exist? Are they happy? Can I see them again? Are they here with me?

Sam never had the answers. John was an excellent example of what could happen to Dean, and Sam wasn't going to let that happen - it was too cruel. And in order for that to work, Sam had to keep Dean at arms length.

 

Dean nodded towards Sam's feet, clothed in black hiking socks, similar to his own. "You should grab some shoes."

"Okay."

"I'll see ya upstairs in a sec."

They parted with a mutual smile. The basement was cold, so Sam closed the window and repositioned the salt-bag. He also grabbed the one he'd laid at the top of the stairs just inside the door, and placed it at the bottom of the stairs so he wouldn't have to kick it out of the way to enter the main house anymore. There was a creak as Sam sat on the bed to lace up his sneakers. As he was climbing up the stairs, he smoothed down his hair, rolling his eyes immediately in exasperation at his own behaviour. Dean was going to be hard to keep at a distance, especially if Sam kept subconsciously trying to impress him.


	5. Stand in the Sky

Sam walked up the flight of steep stairs which led to Dean's part of the house. They were carpeted in a thin, aging blue material and the last stair creaked loudly as he stepped on it. Dean was crouching over a toolbox, sorting nails, screws, bolts and other things that Sam didn't recognise into different compartments. A silver hip flask stuck out from his back pocket, and the waistband of his underwear was visible above his tight jeans. They were in a small hallway, of which one wall was a pale blue, and the other was covered in brush strokes of different colours, ranging from deep red to pale green. A solitary picture of Dean and the blue eyed lawyer hung on the finished wall in the centre. The corridor had three doors leading off it, one of which was being propped open by a small crate of whiskey. Inside, Sam glimpsed a single bed, and a nightstand covered in pictures of the two men together. A bottle of grease stood next to an electric sander on the floor, casting an odd shadow onto the walls.

Sam cleared his throat and scraped his hair, now dry, out of his face. "Hey."

Dean stood up. "Hi."

"So, how can I help?" He asked, tucking his thumbs into the back pockets of his jeans.

"Hmm, well, I was gonna sand the door so it'll fit, and I need some help so I know when to stop."

"Sure."

Dean bent down to pick up the sander and chucked Sam a pair of goggles, placing his own over his eyes. They were a bit too small, squeezing his face and making him squint through the scratched plastic. The sander roared into life, and within minutes, the door was sanded to a pencil line that he'd drawn previously. Feeling a bit like he wasn't needed, Sam raised a hand to indicate that Dean should stop, and the room fell into silence with a soft whir of the machine. They moved the crate of whiskey and closed the door slowly, wincing at the creak it made, but sharing a satisfied smile once the latch clicked into place and the door didn't stick. It suddenly became obvious that they were standing in Dean's bedroom.

The awkwardness overwhelmed Dean, so, pushing all thoughts of Sam out of his mind, he opened the door again and gave his tenant the bottle and an oily cloth to grease the squeaking hinges. He'd left the large tin of blue paint in the bathroom, so he retrieved it, dragging it slowly over the carpet. A rusty old spoon was used to lever the lid off and the smell of paint mixed with the stench of grease in the confined hallway. A loud bang made Dean wince - his lack of sleep and slight hangover giving him a headache. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam, who had just slammed the door, saw his landlord grimace.

"Sorry."  


"Don't worry about it; means the door's well oiled," he said, standing up, spoon in one hand, and a paint roller in the other, which he offered to Sam.  


"I'm actually just gonna go change into some old clothes."  


"Good idea," Dean said, glancing at his paint splattered jogging bottoms and t-shirt that lay in a pile on the bathroom floor.

Sam jogged down the two flights of stairs, and entered his basement room, taking deep breaths of the solvent-free air. He changed into his jogging bottoms and an old vest top and made his way back upstairs, trying in vain to expel all thought of Dean from his mind.

_You can't get too close to people Sam! You can't have connections! Not ever. They're weaknesses. You'll just put those people in danger, get them killed. Hunting is life, Sam. It's your life. Don't get others involved in our shit!_

John's words echoed in Sam's mind, as if that day was just yesterday, and Sam, the scrawny, tall teenager, was standing in the room; strong and defiant against the torrent of abuse from his father. He hated his dad, but John was right. If they got too close, Dean would die. It was a wave of bad luck that Sam carried around with him, and he was determined not to put anyone else in danger.

Upstairs, Dean was painting the wall, dressed in his paint covered, greasy clothes; his back to Sam. Turning, he handed him a second roller, the goggles around his neck clinking against the strange amulet Sam had never noticed before. He gladly took the roller and they painted the wall together; Sam doing the highest parts as he was taller. The silence that consumed them was not awkward, as it had been before, but contented and comfortable, broken only by occasional humming from the shorter of the two.

It was just before midday when they finish painting the hallway and peeled off the masking tape Dean had put around the door frames and ceiling. Sweaty and tired, Dean lifted up his shirt to wipe his face. Sam glimpsed hard stomach muscle. Resisting the urge to do the same, he wiped his forehead on his arm, careful not to touch his face with his paint covered hand. In the quiet, Sam could hear experienced hands unscrew the cap of a flask, and Dean emerged from the bathroom, wearing his jeans again and drinking from his silver hip flask. Approaching Sam, he held it out, and Sam accepted it and took a swig. He spluttered, choking.

"God what is _in_ that?"

The other man threw back his head and laughed. "Whiskey and Jäger… I think."  


"You think?" Sam echoed.  


They both laughed. Dean took the flask out of Sam's outstretched hand and took another gulp, letting drain down his parched throat.

They left the paintbrushes to soak in white spirit and went downstairs to the kitchen. It was only eleven, so Sam decided to change and take a trip into town to find a job. Dean knew exactly what he was going to do.

 

The '67 Chevy Impala; his pride and joy, rumbled into life, and a cassette tape started playing. It wasn't Metallica or AC/DC or anything he'd usually listen to. But it wasn't usually. Nothing was 'usually' anymore. He didn't recognise the song - he rarely did nowadays. They were Cas's tapes: soft guitar plucking and clear deep voices that were such a change from 'usual' him. With one hand on the wheel, he leant back in the worn leather seat and let the music wash over him. The route was so familiar that he didn't have to think about which turnings to take, which was a good thing, as everything lately had been in a sort of haze. It was like he was living life from behind a gauze curtain: he was there but not completely whole. A part of him had left this world. That part of him was Cas.

And when he arrived, it was so serene…so quiet. It was everything a cemetery should be. Cas's grave was in a secluded corner, away from the hustle of everyone else. A large oak tree cast golden green shadows onto the white marble headstone and the wooden bench opposite. The words he'd chosen stole his attention and Dean's eyes; green like the light, lingered there, reading them over and over again. _My friend. My soul-mate._

It was different from the other's surrounding it. There was no 'we remember with love', or 'he shall be missed by everyone', because Cas didn't have a family. Cas didn't have friends. Cas had Dean. Dean had Cas.

 

 

 

Dean didn't have Cas. Not anymore

 

 

 

He tried… he tried so hard not to, because he knew Cas didn't want to see him cry. Cas could always heal pain. But not now.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his words catching in his throat. "I'm so sorry Cassie."

He could almost hear his gravelly voice, caring and kind, asking why. Why are you sorry Dean?

"I'm sorry you don't get a chance to see the world, Cas… oh God… Cas: the world is so beautiful… It's so beautiful… and you're not here to see it with me…

You wanted to go to New Zealand and see the sunrise, you wanted to climb the Rocky Mountains and stand in the sky and spin and dance and laugh like nothing else mattered in the world…" the words tumbled from Dean's mouth and he wiped his hand across his wet cheeks.

"I have to do all that w-without you now. How can I do that Cas? I'm not brave enough to do that alone… I'm not brave enough to do any of this alone." He looked at the floor between his feet, the world spinning around him. His eyes were swollen and gritty with hot tears, his nose streaming.

"When does the pain stop Cas? You could always heal pain huh?" Dean laughed at the irony through his tears. "When can this stop? It hurts baby… It hurts so bad…" His shoulders shook, silent and shuddering.

"Why you? What did you do huh? How come you deserve this? You shouldn't be lying in the ground Cas… you should be out here with me. Take me with you Cas… You should be-" he broke off, his breaths quick and wet. The sleeve of his jacket was soaked. "You should-… Oh god Cas… you should be-"

Dean realised that he'd slid off the bench and onto the cold gravel floor, as if to get closer to the part of him he'd buried.

"What do I do about Sam? I love you Cas. I only love you. I'll only love you. I promise. But- but- it's so hard… do you hate me?" He choked, his tears coming as hiccups now. "Hell, Cas, I hate me… I wish I was dead. I want to join you …

You know, people say the pain stops after a while. It hurts Cas. I need you to make it better… I need you to make it stop. Make it stop Cas… Please…" Then quieter, as if an echo, he said it again. "Please."

"Remember when we walked along the river at night and it was warm and the stars were out? I liked that Cas. Remember when we sang together really loudly and pretended no-one could hear us and we got weird looks from everyone but we didn't care because I had you and you had me and we laughed and sang like there was no-" the words stuck in his mouth. "-like there was no t-tomorrow…Or when we had coffee in that café on the corner and you said I love you. I wanna picture of that… God… oh God Cas… I wanna carry every second with me, but I forget things Cas... I'm sorry. It's all a blur. I'm scared I'm forgetting you man. I can't forget you. You were the best thing in my life.

 

You were my life."

 

 

 


End file.
